


Movie Magic

by Tysolna



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Crack, Dragons, Gen, M/M, Magic, Smauglock, hobbit!john, kissing with tongues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:57:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/pseuds/Tysolna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh god, oh god, someone laced the popcorn, we’re on a bad trip”, John moaned, burying his head in his hands. “Why does this always happen to me?”</p><p>“A bad trip? Oh I wouldn’t say that”, Sherlock rumbled, and there was the sound of satin on metal again. Suddenly, something tapped John on the shoulder. “I have”, Sherlock said, and the humour was very evident in his voice, “a prehensile tail.” </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock and John wake up to discover that their bodies have changed - they now look like two characters from a movie they had watched the night before.<br/>A short crack fic about John as Bilbo and Sherlock as the Dragon in 221B Baker Street. I blame Gandalf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Movie Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Random_Nexus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/gifts).



> Random Nexus was requesting weird fics on tumblr, and my muse took over. I realise that something like this has probably been done before, but so has post-Reichenbach and I don’t see anyone complaining about _that_.
> 
> Please note that this was written before the release date of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey and the dragon's anatomy as described here was jossed.

“What happened to us? No seriously, Sherlock, what?” 

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe if he waited a little, he would wake up and all this would have been a dream to laugh about over breakfast. 

“I don’t know”, rumbled Sherlock from the other chair, his voice in the usual baritone but with strange harmonics laced through it. “This occurrence defies all logic.”

“I must be dreaming, it’s the only explanation that makes sense.” But John still wasn’t opening his eyes. 

“If you’re dreaming, John, then so am I”, came Sherlock’s reply. “And while it is not unheard of that two people can share a dream, I am rather sure that both of us are awake.” There was a sound like a piece of satin being cut by a very sharp sword. Sherlock stretched. 

John opened his eyes. Unfortunately, the scene before him hadn’t changed. Sighing, he scratched his head, then withdrew the hand as if he had been burned when he touched a small, pointed ear. “Christ!” He shifted nervously in his too-large clothes and the too-big chair. “But, but how?”  
He looked at Sherlock who was gazing at him from his black leather chair. Even now, Sherlock appeared to be lounging on the chair, and on the sofa, and in pretty much all of the living room, his bulk obscuring the morning light that shone through the windows of 221B Baker Street. 

“And why”, John said, exasperated, “why am I even smaller than usual, while you’re… you’re…” There were no words to adequately describe what Sherlock was, but he was most certainly bigger than John. A lot bigger than John. Usually, their size difference didn’t bother him, he knew he was still well within the normal range for human males. It was just that Sherlock always seemed to be a lot taller than he actually was.  
Not so now. Sherlock didn’t seem to be tall. He was absolutely huge, and it was a minor miracle that he even fitted into their flat. 

Sherlock slowly raised a hand (paw? talon?) to his face and turned it, studying it from all angles, fascinated. Glittering lights as from a gigantic mirror ball were playing on John’s face, reflected from the red and golden scales on Sherlock’s paw. The paw flexed a little, and claws appeared. Sherlock hummed. “This is certainly extraordinary.” 

When he saw the claws, John instinctively shrank further into his chair. He had long ago given up all pretense of sitting in his usual manner, feet on the floor, because his feet didn’t reach the floor. His hairy feet. Suddenly, something clicked.

“Sherlock. The film. The one we saw yesterday. The one you said was silly and didn’t make any sense. Where they threatened to throw you out.”

“Yeees”, drawled Sherlock, a low rumble that shook the floor. “I remember. It was exceedingly silly. Dwarves and giant spiders, trolls and dra… oh!”

“Yes, Sherlock. Exactly.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, digesting this. Somehow, overnight, they had been turned into two characters from the film they had watched at the cinema the day before. John scratched absently at his pointed ears. He had been lucky, all things considered, at least he looked pretty much like he always did, had the usual number of limbs and no beard. But Sherlock? Sherlock was a full-size dragon. In a flat. In London. 

“The popcorn!” Sherlock exclaimed suddenly. “It must have been the popcorn, it was the only thing we shared.” 

“Yeah well, feeding you popcorn was the only way I could get you to shut up long enough to actually hear what was going on…” John trailed off. “Hang on, though. Did you buy the popcorn?” 

Sherlock looked at him intently, a look that was even worse when it came not from Sherlock’s usual blue-green eyes, but from eyes that were slitted like a cat’s, liquid gold and piercing and the size of John’s palm. “No”, Sherlock said, “I assumed you did?”

“Oh god, oh god, someone laced the popcorn, we’re on a bad trip”, John moaned, burying his head in his hands. “Why does this always happen to me?”

“A bad trip? Oh I wouldn’t say that”, Sherlock rumbled, and there was the sound of satin on metal again. Suddenly, something tapped John on the shoulder. “I have”, Sherlock said, and though his dragon face didn’t smile, the humour was very evident in his voice, “a prehensile tail.” 

John flinched at the touch and drew up his legs, making himself even smaller than he already was. Sherlock tilted his massive head. “Are you afraid of me?” he asked. 

“No, I’m not”, John replied quietly, but didn’t move. “But this body has a mind of it’s own, and it is quite frankly scared as hell.”

“Hm, yes, I know what you mean. I’m feeling a little different myself.” He hesitated, then very gently and carefully wrapped his tail around John’s small form, using the tip of his tail to stroke his hair, much like he would usually use his arms and hands to hug him. Slowly, John started to relax. “Thank you”, he sighed. “That helped.” He reached out and gave the tail a little pat. Sherlock’s skin might look like glittering jewels and metal scales, but it felt warm and soft underneath his hand. A shiver ran through Sherlock’s body at John’s touch. 

“So”, John said when he felt more like himself and not like some scared woodland creature. “What do we do now? Hope the effects wear off after a while? Because I really, really don’t want us to be stuck in these forms. Being this small is bad enough, but you?” He shook his head. “Can you imagine Lestrade’s face when you turn up like this at a crime scene?” He giggled at the thought. “The world’s only Consulting Dragon.”  
Sherlock’s deep laughter joined John’s giggles. “Never mind Lestrade”, he said, “I want to see Mycroft’s face.”  
“Oh my god, yes, your brother might actually look surprised for once!” John sobered suddenly. “Or he might lock you up and have people experiment on you. Sherlock, we have to hide.”

“At least until this is over, yes. I don’t think the change is permanent. Let’s for the moment assume that there was something in the popcorn that made us change. The question is, do we need an antidote, and if so, where do we get it?” Sherlock went quiet for a moment. “And why would someone do this in the first place?”

Without realising that he did it, the tip of Sherlock’s prehensile tail had moved from John’s head to his thighs, stroking up and down the soft fabric of John’s now oversized dressing gown. John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“I’m, mmm, comforting you?”

“Yeah, right. Get your tail away from my legs, please.”

“You never minded my touch before, John.”

“You never were a dragon before, Sherlock, and I know where it leads when you touch me like that. And before you ask, no, I won’t. I don’t think it’s even possible. I mean, look at me, I’m tiny. And you, you’re not even human.”

Sherlock didn’t stop moving his tail, and he leaned his large, scaly head closer to John. He opened his jaws in an approximation of a grin. John couldn’t help but stare at the sharp teeth of his friend. Fangs, he corrected himself. They were fangs. Oh god. If Sherlock tried to kiss him, he might be swallowed whole. A gust of hot breath washed over John, smelling of minerals and fire. 

Fire. Something nagged at John’s mind. Fire!

“Sherlock! Sherlock, be careful, remember you’re a fire-bloody-breathing dragon!”

Sherlock’s snout closed with a snap that reverberated through the flat, but then a tongue slithered out, forked at the tip almost like a snake’s. “Let me, please?” he asked, and when John didn’t answer - he couldn’t answer, he was transfixed very much like a rabbit faced with a snake - Sherlock touched the tip of his tongue very, very lightly on John’s mouth, keeping it there, but not moving any further. 

John shuddered and closed his eyes. What was going on here? Was he just being tongue-kissed by a dragon? A dragon who was Sherlock? Who was at the same time hugging him with his freaking prehensile tail? The whole thing was completely and utterly ridiculous. Still there was the gentle touch of a warm, silky tongue on his lips. 

And that was where Captain Three-Continents Watson gave a mental shrug and told himself to roll with it. He withdrew slightly, then very deliberately placed a kiss on Sherlock’s dragon tongue. There was a small sound from Sherlock, an almost catlike trill. John opened his mouth, and Sherlock’s tongue slid in carefully, while his tail hugged him closer.

They stayed like this for a while, John sucking and nibbling on the forked dragon tongue, while Sherlock ran his tail all over John’s body. It felt strange, yet pleasant, and John almost lost himself in the moment when he suddenly felt something burning on his lips and running into his mouth. He withdrew, spluttering, and looked up at Sherlock. What he saw made his blood freeze.  
Sherlock’s muzzle was glowing with an internal flame that was leaking down his tongue. There were wisps of smoke coming out of Sherlock’s nose, and Sherlock’s eyes, when they opened to look at John, were glittering with fire, and realisation, and fear. “John, I…” he began, but stopped when flames started licking out of his mouth. With a soft mewl, he lowered his head to rest on the chair, his tail unwrapping from John, his whole form shivering with the strain of controlling the fire. He looked very much like wounded animal, and John couldn’t help but respond to his distress, even though he was afraid of being burned to a crisp if Sherlock lost control.

“Sherlock”, he said softly. “Sherlock, you can do this. Mind over matter.” He slipped off his chair and reached out, carefully putting his hand as high as he could on the side of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s skin was hot, almost burning him, but he kept his hand where it was. “Just transport, remember?”  
Sherlock leaned into John’s cool touch, and swallowed the flames with a huge effort. “John…” he whispered, “John, I need to get out of here… I need…” There was a rustling noise, and John suddenly realised another thing about Sherlock’s dragon form: He had wings. “I need to move… fly…”

John nodded. “Alright. Alright, just, wait a moment. I’ll be right back. Don’t move, ok? Alright?”  
Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. John turned and ran up the stairs to his room, shedding his dressing gown as he went, then quickly dressed, turning up the hems of his jeans and jumper - ridiculous, he felt like a child in grown-up clothes - grabbed his gun and phone, and went downstairs to where Sherlock was lying, unmoving except for his tail, which was thumping John’s chair like that of an angry cat.  
“Okay, Sherlock. You’re ok.” How in the blazes were they going to get Sherlock outside? And what if someone saw them?

“I can get out by the window, John”, Sherlock said as if he had read John’s mind. “My head fits through, and I can make the body follow…” He swallowed again. “Even if someone sees me, do you really think they will believe it?”

John chuckled. “No, I suppose not. Okay, let’s do this, then.”

Sherlock nodded. He turned slowly towards the living room window. John hurriedly opened it, and stepped aside to let Sherlock through. He hoped to god that Sherlock wouldn’t get stuck. A broken window could be explained away, a hole in the front of the building not so easily. But Sherlock was right. Once the dragon’s head was clear of the window, the body seemed to slim down so that it slid through the opening with ease.  
As Sherlock landed on the street, there were shouts and car horns, and Sherlock called up. “Hurry, John! Jump on my back!”

Oh hell, John thought, what have I gotten myself into now, but he jumped out and onto Sherlock’s back. “Hold on!” Sherlock told him. “Hold onto what?” John called back. “Scales!” Sherlock shouted as he opened his wings with a leathery snap, then hunched his hind legs and sprang into the air. 

John clung onto Sherlock’s back for dear life as Sherlock’s wings beat the air. Below them, London was spread out in the morning light, the towers and spires glittering in the sun. It was frightening and exhilarating, and before he could stop himself, John whooped with delight. Sherlock laughed. “Not a bad trip!” he called over the rushing wind. “No, Sherlock, not a bad trip at all”, John answered as Sherlock picked up speed and turned northward, and the rushing wind made all conversation meaningless.

The next morning, they woke up in a remote area of the Scottish highlands, shivering with cold. John took off his jumper and wrapped it around Sherlock’s naked form, then wrapped himself around Sherlock for good measure to share some body warmth, and took his phone to call Mycroft for a lift. They would have some explaining to do, he feared, but at least they were back to normal – or at least, what passed as normal for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.


End file.
